


a star map to greatness

by altamira (yujael)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Humor, M/M, Quests, Slow Burn, magic isn't illegal, more as i go along and remember what's in here, more fantasy than merlin already is, soul marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 06:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13288824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/altamira
Summary: The stars have been shining brightly over Camelot for decades, watching over an age of prosperity the land has known only a few times in the past. Dark things are brewing in the kingdom, however. A void rests beyond the stars and there are some who would let that darkness loose.Meanwhile, Prince Arthur is on a quest to undo a curse on his constellation. Merlin, a hedge mage in a band of mercenaries, has no constellation. Somehow, the future brilliance of Camelot's stars rests on their shoulders.





	a star map to greatness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donutcats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/gifts).



Arthur hadn’t realized until now how much of a relief it would be to see a tree on the horizon. After nearly two full days of riding with nothing taller than his shoulder to be seen in any direction the beginnings of a thin forest sprawling across the hills ahead is like cool water to a parched throat, a weight off his shoulders and a mark in his favour. 

The steppes north of Camelot, the lands of flowing stone and quiet perils, were little more to Arthur than ink on a map until two days ago.  The region is no man’s land, a place soaked with magic that even the most powerful sorcerers can’t control, and no kingdom bordering it wants to risk claim on. He sits a little taller in the saddle knowing that he was able to make the journey with hardly any trouble. The forest rises up, low mountains looming behind, and Arthur finally passes into Essetir. 

Finding the village that’s supposed to be near the border takes longer than Arthur would have liked, but there’s little point in grousing about it, especially to himself. Mapping the steppe is no easy task when the land itself seems to shift from one place to another on any given day. It turns out that he only came out of it a few miles east of where he’d meant to, anyway. 

The stars are out when he gets into the tavern. He gets a few glances from the people huddled over their meals, but nothing more than some curious looks at an unfamiliar face. The barkeeper eyes him and his finer clothes with a little more interest, eyes crinkling a little when Arthur calls for food on his way across the floor.

“A traveller, are you?” She asks once Arthur’s close enough to her counter. She drops a tankard between them as he nods.

“That’s right,” he says. It’s a practiced response, a simple truth if a little far from the whole one. “A tired and very thirsty one.”

“I’ll bet,” the barkeeper says, reaching for a pitcher and a bowl at the same time. “Coming up from the south has that way with everyone.”

“How’d you know I came that way? I could have come in from the north. Ale, too, by the way.”

She laughs, a full chested motion that still doesn’t allow the water she’s pouring to spill. She turns for another pitcher and a second tankard, filling it with a pale ale instead. “Coming down the river doesn’t make you look half as thirsty. The water’s a treat, the rest is five silvers.”

Arthur pays easily as she ladles thick stew into his bowl, and then she leaves him at an empty table and starts circling the tavern as other customers call on her. When she comes back around a few minutes later she picks the conversation back up unprompted.

“Besides, there hasn’t been too much of anything coming from up there. I don’t know which way you’re going, but word is that you’ll want to keep good wits about you if you ride north.”

Arthur leans over, glad to take news that he doesn’t have to dig for. “Have there been bandits?”

She shrugs, a slight furrow in her brow. “I don’t much know. News is as slow as everything else, and when it slows down my business it’s usually something to watch for. So,” another shrug, “watch out.” She leaves again, crisscrossing back to the counter.

It’s not very useful information, but Arthur has no choice but to keep it in mind since he’s not actually sure which direction he’ll be taking in the morning. He has more questions to ask, and as much as his habits and his conscious demand that he check out the northern road he has to remind himself that he didn’t come here to solve another kingdom’s problems.

So, when the barkeeper comes back around to his side of the tavern again Arthur asks her if she knows anything about dragon slayers.

 

There are no dragons in Camelot. The best they see is the occasional gathering of wyverns, which are much too small and not quite hardy enough for what Arthur needs, which is a shame seeing as how he has no choice but to be away from home for an indeterminate amount of time. He’s never been to Essetir, either, so just finding word on a dragon’s location is already set to be a much more time-consuming task than just leaving the city to hunt for a day.

And there’s no going home until his task is complete, so Arthur sets his shoulders and takes every whisper he can hear.

The border village gives him more or less the same information from a dozen different mouths - no slayers here, but most definitely in the north. For all Arthur knows, though, the way there is infested with bandits, ravenous wolves and assorted magical creatures out for his flesh. The stories don’t trouble him, not one of the best knights in Camelot. 

“This isn’t Camelot,” a villager tells him as if their location makes a difference to how well he holds a blade.

He rides north. The road takes him through the woods, following a slow river that meanders away and then back again a few times before he finds another village. It looks much the same as the other, but with no other paths east or west it’s much quieter. He gets much of the same information again, except for one detail.

“It’s not bandits,” a man sitting across from Arthur in the tavern says. The space around them quiets some, not that it had been especially loud in the first place. “Not that they aren’t taking what they can get, too. There’s war. The roads are dangerous up there with the armies and the only thing south is the steppe, so everyone’s headed for the coast.”

That’s news to Arthur, and for a moment it strikes him - he’s been away from home, and the court, for some time now. Not that he was especially fond of King Cenred, but he hadn’t realized that tensions had gotten so close to breaking. He’ll admit now that some caution is necessary. He’s not interested in getting caught in the middle of a battlefield.

He spends the rest of the night drinking and arm wrestling, hoping to exhaust himself before he puts too much time into thinking about how long it’s going to take to find someone with the skills he needs that hasn’t already been snatched up by the king or his enemies.  His arm aches in the morning, but the memory of exertion as opposed to repeated thoughts about his quest makes the dull pain almost pleasant.

 

Leaving the forest will bring him to a web of roads and villages, and Arthur has no way of knowing for sure which is safer than the others or more useful in his quest. He could follow the fleeing people east and find the crowds there, or take his chances elsewhere in the kingdom, despite all the mess. 

He intends on making his decision as soon as he reaches the first fork in the road, but he doesn’t quite make it that far before he runs into the first sign of real trouble. 

When he sees the group up the road he’s alert immediately, calculating how likely it is that the half-dozen men he can see are as rough as they look. Then he spots the figures huddled in the middle of it all, and he rides toward them with sharp intent.

“Is there trouble here?” He calls just as one of the men notices him. He slides off his horse and watches several pairs of eyes track from his face to his armour, weapons, and back again. 

“None for you,” one of the group responds, fingers resting on the handle of an axe pitched into the ground next to him. On his arm, Arthur can see a spattering of faint white stars, the whole network cut through by a gnarled scar. “Just so long as you’re brighter than a cheater.”

“They’re thieves!” A woman kneeling on the ground cries before the axe wielder silences her with a murderous look. A man who might be her brother ignores the look in favour of pleading to Arthur.

“We don’t have anything to pay a toll, but they won’t believe us-”

“Excuses don’t pay for bridges,” a man with more dirt on his clothes than hair on his head cuts in.

Nothing says bandits taking advantage of refugees more than that, Arthur decides. He draws his sword and the bandits follow suit, but then the axe wielder holds a hand up.

“Just a second now. Are you a king’s man or a traitor?”

“It won’t make much of a difference for you,” Arthur replies smoothly. If he had to guess, the stars on the man’s arm might form the constellation of a pig.

The next couple moments are chaotic, loud. Through the use of a flimsy blade, a rock into one of their assailant’s eyes and a great bit of luck the refugees manage to make it out of the melee, darting off in the direction Arthur had come. Arthur’s relieved, but only for a second. He’s still left with several angry men to take care of and it takes all of his concentration to avoid losing his head or one of his arms.

Which is why, in the end, he doesn’t notice the man in the bushes until he’s been knocked on his back by a lucky kick in his gut. He has a brief couple of seconds to contemplate the absolute dirty turn this morning has taken and how that sends an uncomfortable tingle down his arm as he fails to reclaim his sword again before the hidden man launches himself from the underbrush. He tackles one of the bandits before they can grab Arthur or drive a blade through him, and then, before Arthur can fully register that he may have an ally, the stranger promptly sets the man on fire.  The bandit yelps and Arthur grabs his sword.

Arthur gets back to his feet and gets back into the chaos as the men around him shout and try to put the fire out while also evading Arthur’s sword. The man - the sorcerer - who’d started the flames eating away at the bandit’s clothing is nowhere to be seen again. It can’t be more than a moment or two, though, before the bandits are scattering into the woods, leaving Arthur alone on the road with a couple of broken bags of food. 

A few seconds of silence pass before the sorcerer steps out again,  long, skinny limbs unfolding from behind the bushes. He has no weapon to speak of, only a pouch slung over his shoulder and twigs in his dark hair.  He gives Arthur a crooked smile that spreads easily the longer he looks Arthur over. His eyes are eerie in the way they seem to catalogue every scrape and smudge of dirt Arthur earned in the scuffle, but then they’re soft in their cheeriness. “That went well, didn’t it?”

Before Arthur can answer, yet another man comes charging onto the road, sword in hand  as he comes to a grinding halt between Arthur and the stranger.  He’s as tall as Arthur, maybe even taller. His hair is tied back, but his bangs are wild and cling to his forehead with sweat. He makes an aborted motion to clear them away from his eyes and instead risks one look over his shoulder.

“Merlin!” He says, just barely gasping for breath.  He doesn’t wear any recognizable symbol of a knight that Arthur can see, but his stance speaks of a much greater level of skill . “I heard shouting. What happened?”

“Bandits,” the sorcerer, Merlin, replies easily. He freezes for a split second and then tugs his friend’s arm before the man can raise his sword to Arthur properly. “Wait, wait, not him. He was fighting them and it looked like he needed help, so I did.”

Arthur blinks and finally takes the chance to get a word in before anyone else can steal it away again. “I was doing just fine, thank you.” All he’d needed to do was roll away from the incoming blow and get up again.

Merlin doesn’t give him the time to say that. He tilts his head and says, “You were on the ground. I saved your life.”

“You say that like you didn’t just scurry away to hide again. If you’d stayed in the bushes you’d have seen me save my own life.”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond but his friend cuts in, finally lowering his weapon as he speaks. “The bandits are gone, then?” He asks, looking up and down the road. He sees Arthur’s horse nearby and turns to Arthur again. “You look well armed and skilled for a traveller.”

“Are you going to ask if I’m a king’s man, too?” Arthur asks.

The man wipes sweat and stray bangs from his forehead. “Are you?”

“I’m not from around here. It doesn’t matter to me.”

The man’s posture loosens a fraction. “Nor to me. Bandits have been getting too bold lately, so I’ll thank you for what you did.”

“Hopefully they won’t forget what they’ve learned anytime soon,” Merlin says as his friend sheaths his sword and offers a hand to Arthur. 

“I’m Lancelot.”

“Arthur.”

“That’s Merlin.” Lancelot points over his shoulder. Merlin waves, although he’s still giving Artur a sideways look. “Keen eyes will be good if you’re going on ahead.”

“I heard there’s war.”

Lancelot nods. “It’s a rebellion. They aim to overthrow the king.”

Civil war, lovely. At the very least, Arthur shouldn’t have to be wary of multiple kings. “Do you know what the roads are like?”

“The king holds most of the west, Lord Ban and his men have the east,”  Lancelot explains. “Last I checked, anyway. Once you leave the woods you’re probably better off avoiding the main roads.”

“Unless you’re here to fight, you want to follow the talk of the people, not the shouting of the knights,” Merlin adds. “Or else you’ll just run into more of this and we won’t even be around then.”

Lancelot turns halfway to him . “Were you up to tricks?”

Merlin shrugs. 

“He set a fire if that’s what you’re after,” Arthur supplies, taking satisfaction in Merlin’s unimpressed expression.

“That probably won’t get you out of making a campfire later,” Lancelot says to Merlin. To Arthur, he says, “Forget you saw it. Merlin doesn’t have much, but anyone with enough skill in magic is supposed to be fighting with the king. He has enough magic at his disposal, though, and we’re not interested in fighting a war.”

There’s a glint of something more serious in Merlin’s eye.  Not the telltale gold flecks of magic, but a steeliness of someone trying to judge whether or not they should be ready to run. Arthur sets his jaw and nods. “I have no intention of getting involved here. I’m just passing through.”

Maybe if he gets desperate, Arthur could approach the king -  _ maybe _ . But even then there’s no saying that Cenred would spare the resources to hunt a beast as dangerous as a dragon.  Even then, Merlin is no enemy to him and Arthur isn’t in the business of forcing men to fight wars.

“If you're all right, then,” Lancelot starts. 

“I am,” Arthur says, more to Merlin than Lancelot. 

“Good luck,” Lancelot continues. “I hope there’s safety in your stars.”

“And in yours.”

Lancelot turns to Merlin. “If you’ve gathered enough herbs then we should get back to the others, or this time they really will leave us behind.”

“Would that be so bad?” Merlin asks. Arthur can’t see Lancelot’s face, but apparently, it says everything it needs to because then Merlin nods and says, “Okay, maybe you’re right. Goodbye, Arthur. Hopefully, you won’t need my help again.” 

“I didn’t,” Arthur calls after them. He thinks he hears something of a laugh from Lancelot, but then they’re both gone, their sounds fading steadily as they wind through the trees out of sight.

 

Arthur keeps Lancelot’s words in mind when he reaches the split in the path, but any turn he takes looks to be dangerous. He might have been better off going through Mercia. 

More dragons in Essetir, his memory offers, for all it helps.  Mercia’s ties with Camelot in the past have been checkered, but during a period of peace more than thirty years ago the two kingdoms had driven most of the dragons out of Mercia. Essetir, almost constantly at odds with Camelot until the treaty struck only a few years ago, didn’t ask for any aid in the inevitable influx of dragonkind in her land. Instead, the people drew upon their own skills and bravery, and Arthur hopes that there are some who’ve maintained that. 

He should have asked, he realizes, but he’s not sure what a couple people trying to avoid battle would know about the whereabouts of dragon slayers.

In the end, he turns west. If a prince is to travel through a war then at least his chances of surviving trouble are better among the king’s men. If he wound up with the  king’s court, Cenred would send would to Camelot and while Arthur knows Uther would send a response full of polite thanks for the king and thinly veiled disappointment for his son, at least he’d know that Arthur had made progress and fully intended to keep going.

It winds up being a good decision, too. It’s early in the afternoon when he reaches another village, this one a little larger than the others, and there he finally finds someone with advice more specific than “check in the north.”

“There’s a group I’ve heard of, yeah,” a woman tells him in between bites of tough meat in the tavern. “Some lord’s paid them to do a bunch of things no man with sense does. I can’t remember his name…”

“The lord isn’t important,” Arthur says before she can drift away from the conversation, as she had twice before. “The group. Mercenaries?”

“Yeah, they’re the type.”

“Do you know who leads them?”

“Well, let’s see…”

Arthur considers moving on before a man leans over from the next table. “I think you’re thinking of Gamon.”

“I was thinking Galon, but I think that’s it, yeah,” the woman agrees. “Gamon’s got a great big group he goes around with.”

“That’s great,” Arthur says. “Do you know where I might find them?”

The woman makes a vague gesture over her head and Arthur is surprised when she doesn’t answer with “somewhere north.” Instead, she turns to the man at the other table and asks, “They were around not too long ago, weren’t they?”

“I think so, yeah. Went west, didn’t they?”

“Must have. Last I heard, the bridge the other way was still out, there’s nowhere else to go unless you go north.”

Arthur can see where this is going. “But the best bet is west, isn’t it?”

“Oh, definitely,” they both say. The woman continues, “If you're really trying then maybe you should look into visiting an observatory. The closest one’s west anyway.”

“No, thank you,” Arthur says quickly. One visit to the observatory in Camelot had been enough. The majority of the stargazers there were reluctant to place their hands on his constellation, to look for it in the night sky in the scrying hall and find the paths connecting it to its fellows. It had been Morgana in the end who’d told him where to go first, her eyes piercing him like stars in a lonely sky, like they were the only lights that reached the hall. She’d directed him north. He can find his own way, now. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“It’s all west anyway,” she says again as he stands up and leaves the tavern. 

 

Not long after sundown, Arthur gets the feeling that he’s in luck. The next village is at the bottom of a gentle hill that crests high enough that he can see over every building, as well as the small camp outside them. It’s the most lively place he’s seen this side of the steppe so far, and there’s sure to be more news. 

To make matters even better, the tavern is practically rowdy when he enters. When he starts to ask after the name Gamon he only has to ask two people before he finds a man who hears the name and then proceeds to turn in his seat and shout over the rest of the noise. The rest of the customers quiet down somewhat as another man responds from the other side of the tavern.

“Who’s asking?”

“That would be me.” Arthur stands to see who he’s talking to.

Gamon certainly looks the part of the leader of a band who might have killed a dragon or two. He has scars on both his face and arms and a hardness in his eye, along with the kind of clothing that was almost certainly bought with a lord’s pay. He sizes Arthur up and then clears away the table in front of him, and the man sitting across from him moves out of the way so that Arthur can sit. 

“My name is Arthur, and I’ve heard that you’re the man to talk to about doing things no man with good sense does,” Arthur starts.

“Sort of depends on what you consider sensible, doesn’t it?” Gamon asks. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m on a hunt, but for something much bigger than a stag or a boar.”

Gamon nods. “All right, we’re getting warmer. We’ve been known to hunt things down here and there.”

“Magical creatures?”

“Sure, as long as you’re paying.”

“Dragons?”

The volume that had risen in the tavern dies out again around their table. Beyond it, they get a few curious glances. Gamon exchanges a look with a few of his men and then leans toward Arthur with a slight curl in his lip. 

“What does a man like you want with a dragon?”

“Well, I’d like to kill it,” Arthur replies simply. “I need a piece or two of it, which I don’t think will impress it very much, hence taking a sword to it. And while you can rest assured that I am an excellent fighter it would still be ludicrous for even me to take one of those on alone. Hence you and your group.”

“Hence me,’ Gamon says, leaning back with a chuckle. “Ah, best not get ahead-”

Arthur drops his coin pouch on the table between them. It’s only a fraction of what he’s been carrying around - like a fool, some would say - but it still makes a satisfying thump against the wood. “I can certainly pay, don’t you worry about that. Fifty now, fifty later, but if you think you did a good enough job later we can talk some more about that.”

Another silent exchange among the group. This time, Arthur’s sure that he’s made a convincing argument. His money has, at least.

“Taking down a dragon is risky business,” Gamon says slowly. “It ain’t cheap, either.”

“You have my word that you’ll be well rewarded if we’re successful.”

“It’ll be slow, too. Dragons are sneaky creatures when they’re not burning everything down.”

Arthur nods. “I’m prepared for that.” He still doesn’t like it, but riding into Camelot again will be even sweeter with the spoils of victory. 

Gamon laughs and raises a hand to his fellows. “The boy wants to be a dragon slayer!” Cheers go up around them. “And we’ve got the skill and guts to make it so! Arthur,” he says, offering his hand, “you have a deal.”

“Stars be bright on it,” Arthur says as they shake on it. 

“Very bright,” Gamon says before he leans back and shouts across the tavern. “Merlin! Where is that fool?”

Arthur blinks at the familiar name and doesn’t have time to consider that there’s likely more than one Merlin in the world before a familiar voice answers from the crowd.

“I’m right here,” Merlin says as he squeezes between a couple of men to stand next to the table. He has the distinct expression of someone who’d much rather not be right here. He glances once at Arthur before turning his attention to Gamon. “What is it?”

Gamon grins at Arthur and jabs his thumb at Merlin. “We even have a servant.” He gestures to Arthur and says to Merlin, “Arthur here is going to be sticking around. If he needs something you’ll get it, starting with a place to sleep.”

He gives Merlin a pointed look, to which Merlin responds, “Right. Might as well make the bed if we’re getting paid, yeah?”

Gamon reaches out, but Merlin is quick to dodge. He lets Merlin dance away and turns to Arthur again. “Like I said, you need something, let Merlin know and he’ll get it done. He’s got a bit of magic, enough to light a fire and get chores done well enough, but he’s not too bright aside from that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur says. On the sidelines, Merlin makes a face that Gamon probably wouldn’t appreciate.

“Off with you now,” Gamon says without looking at him. “Get Arthur’s things sorted out.”

“Just as soon as he gets up,” Merlin says.

“You know, real servants are much more respectful to the people paying them,” Arthur says as he stands. That gets a guffaw out of Gamon and a few sniggers from the crowd, but Merlin’s only response is a somewhat impressive display of his apparent ability to use only his eyes to convey the fact that he knows exactly what he’s doing and has no intention of stopping. 

“Right this way,” he says, leading Arthur to a door near the bar. Through it is a staircase leading up to a cramped hallway. “We’ve crowded the place a bit but we can still put you in a bed.”

“You know, all things considered, I should have just followed you and your friend earlier,” Arthur says as he follows Merlin up the stairs. “Lancelot, wasn’t it? Is he part of this merry band, too?”

“He’s downstairs, yes.” Merlin pushes open a door near the end of the hallway and gestures inside. There are two beds, one of which seems to be claimed already.  There’s a pack on the other until Merlin grabs it and drops it outside the door, muttering, “He can take that up with Gamon if he minds.” He smiles at Arthur.  “And you get to share a room with him. Lucky you.”

“Are you saying he snores?”

“No, just that out of everyone here he’s the best to share with. He’s a good man.” Merlin pauses. “He only snores a little.”

“Good.” Arthur gives the room a once over and then looks Merlin up and down. “So, you’re a servant.”

There’s that look again, that tilt to Merlin’s lips that no servant in Camelot would wear. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Prepare food?”

“I do that most nights.”

“Polish my boots?”

“I’m sure the dragon will be very impressed.”

“Clean my armour?”

Merlin grimaces. “To be honest, I might not even complain about that because I don’t know when you last had it done but  _ whew _ -”

“That’s enough,” Arthur cuts in. “I know how to clean my own equipment perfectly well. Battle makes it dirty, remember?”

“Of course, of course.” Merlin nods and then fixes Artur with an expression unlike any other so far. “Just one thing, though.”

“What?”

Merlin glances into the hallway. “Remember how I have magic?”

“I was going to disregard that for Lancelot’s sake, but yes, I remember. What about it?”

Merlin tilts his head and squints.  The motion catches the candle light in his eyes, a brief spark of something lying dormant that Arthur knows can wake to be very painful for someone else. “You’re not… I don’t know, afraid of it?”

If he takes the time to consider every angle of it, Arthur thinks that a part of him could be.  Magic flows through everyone, drawing stars on their bodies to bare their souls. That’s as far as it goes for most. Others have much more active souls, supposedly, and can shape magic to their will, whatever that might be. He’s seen both the evil and good in it and he much prefers to think of the good deeds standing like beacons along a dark shore. So, he shakes his head. “I can’t say that I am. Your magic tricks won’t stop me from calling on you.”

Merlin laughs dryly. “Magic tricks, yes. Well, that’s the thing. I won’t use it for whatever you want, though.”

Arthur considers that. “Doesn’t Gamon call on it?”

“Only for little things. I can keep fires lit and make metal shiny, but it takes a lot of energy. I can’t sit around and do it all day, so if it pleases you, keep it to small things. I can’t go fighting off dangerous men every day. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Again, I had it handled.”

“Quite well, yes. My point is, that’s your one limitation.”

“Limitations from a servant, now that’s a sight. But that’s fine. I’d much prefer seeing you actually doing the work you’re assigned.”

“Saw that coming,” Merlin mutters from the corner of his mouth. “Okay then, do you need anything or can I just go?”

Arthur smiles and claps his hands together. It's been weeks - months, even - since he'd had the luxury of a servant. “How about we start with getting my things inside and go from there?”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing for Merlin and what better way to go about that than piling more fantasy into it? I'm here with two very specific intentions: to create a fun little world in which my sons don't die, and to shove as many cheesy little tropes into it as I can in order to kill my best friend with the sheer amount of cheese, romance, and magic in it. Writing this is as much of a gift to me as it is to her. Hope you like it Ryn :D
> 
> A brief note on the setting of this au: lots of places have the same name as in the show but their actual locations are different, mostly because while I created a new land for this to take place in the canon names are good enough so I kept them. 
> 
> Lastly, pigs are good creatures, don't let Arthur convince you otherwise.


End file.
